The Discourtesy of Death (Father Anselm Novels) (9 page)

And Eugene, in turn, had fought back, arguing the moral case for the armed struggle; that innocent people get killed in wars, even just ones. By default, the priest had come to learn a great deal about the Republican movement and its masked soldiers. He knew how the organisation was structured. He’d been given a glimpse of internal rivalries and the disputes over tactics.

‘The IRA is run by a seven-man Army Council,’ said the priest, as if Michael didn’t know his left from his right. ‘They decide if there’s going to be a ceasefire. They could even stop the war.’

Michael nodded impatiently.

‘The last time I’d spoken to Eugene, he’d told me there was a struggle at the heart of the IRA between those wanting to shoot the Brits out of Ireland and the growing feeling among some that the only way forward was Sinn Fein and democratic politics, that an electoral mandate for a united Ireland could reach further than the gun and the bomb.’

Where was the war going? This was the big question. In recent years the INLA had killed Airey Neave outside the House of Commons. The IRA had murdered eighteen soldiers at Warrenpoint. They’d assassinated Lord Mountbatten at Mullaghmore. Ten Provisionals had starved themselves to death in the Maze. And the British troops were still in the North. Thatcher wouldn’t bow. The Saracens were still patrolling the housing estates. But there’d been a swing in a surprising new direction: following the hunger strike, Sinn Fein had emerged as a real force in local elections.

‘This is only last year,’ said the priest.

‘Yes,’ added Michael, asserting his authority. ‘And they’re still bombing London. Remember the summer? Hyde Park? Regent’s Park? Nine soldiers dead. Three civilians killed. Fifty injured.’

‘And Gerry Adams has just won a seat in Westminster,’ replied the priest, presumably for Eugene. ‘That’s
national
politics with
international
significance. He’s the MP for West Belfast. He’s
my
MP.’

‘Liam told me you had a message,’ snapped Michael. ‘Who cares if Ó Mórdha goes to Donegal?’

‘You should.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’ll never give up the armed struggle. It’s a religion to him. He’s the one man on the Council who stands in the way of change. The others can be persuaded. Eugene was saying that the debate between the gun and the ballot box can be tilted in the right direction … and now is the time.’

Michael leaned forward and the seat covering squeaked again. The priest’s head had dropped once more. He was holding his coat tight.

‘What is the message?’

The priest spoke to his knotted hands. ‘Ó Mórdha has a cottage in the hills. Few know the place even exists … Eugene was one of them. And he told me.’ The priest rummaged into the coat on his knees, finally pulling out a sheet of folded paper from a pocket. His hand was shaking as he passed it to Michael. ‘There’s only one house in the valley … by a stream and two trees. I’ve written down the details … you’ll find it easily enough on a map.’

Michael frowned and took the paper. ‘Did Eugene say anything else?’

The priest looked up with the waxy stare of someone who’s just killed a man.

‘Eugene said, “Get Ó Mórdha, and you’ll get a peace process. Let him go and the war will never end.”’

The priest had done Eugene’s bidding and an awful silence filled the room. It was as though they were both standing over the battered body of a tout. Looking into the space in front of the dead fire, the priest began mumbling confidentially. He’d heard the one confession in his life that he was meant to repeat. And it wasn’t quite over. The priest was back in that wet, burned-out council house.

‘A voice came from behind the mask. “Time’s up.” I reached into my pocket for the blessed oil … I always carry it with me, just in case … and I began to rub it into one of Eugene’s broken hands. I did them both, watched by this man with the filthy towel hung on one shoulder, and then I anointed Eugene’s forehead … and it was only when I stood up that I realised I hadn’t brought my bag. I couldn’t give him any bread for the journey … this man who’d never come to communion. You know, they dumped his body in an alleyway with an empty milk crate on his head. That was
their
message. Telling the kid who found him what’ll happen if he grew up to become an informer.’

The floor creaked upstairs and Liam’s mother called for help. He wasn’t by her side. Michael knew at once: he was behind the door, as if to earn his £100. After a glance at the ceiling, the priest stood up, wrapped the scarf around his neck, pulled on his coat and settled his hat low on his head.

‘And
I’ve
got a message, too,’ he whispered. ‘Let Liam go. Stop using him. He’s only a boy. You’ve played on his vulnerability. You’ve made him feel important, full-size and useful. For once in his life he thinks he’s not just another nobody. He’s got a job and a wage.’ The priest paused to study Michael’s pale face. ‘You’re scared, aren’t you? It’s no fun sitting in a hovel knowing the IRA are on the other side of the front door. Well, I wanted you to feel that fear, to sweat a bit, because this is where Liam
lives
. Far from an armed compound in Lisburn. He doesn’t even know when to shut up. He talks easily. Like he did when I pressed him hard about the money. Didn’t want me to think he was a thief. Just give it some thought before you go home: if I can find out in five minutes that he’s speaking to the Brits, how long will it take the Provos?’

Michael swung his legs off the bed. Wrapped in his overcoat like that priest, he walked to the bathroom to rinse his face. On turning around he thought again of Liam, as if the kid were kneeling on the floor, handing over the Browning. The boy had risked his life, knowing what the Nutting Squad had done to Eugene. He’d risked everything, trusting in Michael to do his stuff.

Anselm knocked on the door of a small bay-windowed house in the village of Long Melford, part of a row of seventeenth-century dwellings, distinguished by various shades of paint, but joined by tangled ivy and a gently undulating roof of auburn tiles. He’d decided to call unannounced mid-morning on the understanding that the unprepared witness was always more enlightening than the person who’d had time to edit and organise their thoughts. With best intentions, such people often left out the apparently trivial details that were, in fact, of critical importance.

‘Hello?’

The woman was smiling – almost professionally. But the greeting was genuine. She wore loose jeans and a flowery shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Gardening gloves and a trowel revealed what she’d been doing moments before. Her grey-brown hair was simply cut and carelessly ruffled. She’d aged without lines to the mouth or eyes.

‘I wonder if I might speak to Nigel Goodwin,’ said Anselm.

‘I’m afraid he won’t be back for half an hour. Is there some problem? I’m his wife … we share everything.’

According to Olivia, this woman had accompanied her husband to Martlesham, only to swallow whatever she might have said. Anselm addressed her directly, as if she were the sole object of his visit. ‘I don’t want to cause you any distress but I’d like to talk about the death of Jennifer Henderson.’

The woman’s sunny smile vanished instantly. One hand came to her neck as if to fumble with a necklace that wasn’t there.

‘I’ve been asked to make discreet enquiries,’ continued Anselm, reassuringly. ‘I understand the police didn’t take your husband’s concerns seriously. I do. Along with yours. That’s why I’m here. To listen rather than to speak.’

‘I think you’d better come in,’ she said, stepping to one side.

The sitting room was small and tidy. Prints of various cathedrals adorned the brightly painted walls. Three armchairs and a sofa hugged a round coffee table. Spread across the glass surface were a selection of books on gardening and an imposing volume on herbal medicine entitled
Heal Yourself.
It was a cheerful room for a cheerful couple. Sunshine streamed through mullioned windows. Taking a seat, Anselm explained his role as an investigator based at Larkwood, introducing Mr Robson as a colleague from his days at the Bar. He summarised the letter, observing that Detective Superintendent Manning had concluded that the anonymous author was Nigel Goodwin.

‘Your husband is a doctor?’ asked Anselm.

‘Of a sort, yes.’

‘He’s given up practice?’

‘No.’ Sensing Anselm’s misunderstanding, she added, ‘He’s a vicar. A doctor of systematic theology. Specialised in Karl Barth.’

‘Ah.’

Anselm suddenly decided to say nothing further at all. And not simply because he’d never fully understood Barth’s colossal
Dogmatics
. (Not a man for jokes, Barth, he’d thought.) It was, instead, a trick he’d learned from the Prior. Silence forces most people to speak. They begin with trivia and then, bit by bit, they start to reveal their deeper concerns. Helen Goodwin, proud of her husband, a partner in his ministry, kind and outgoing, had her own monumental thoughts. She was perched on the edge of her seat, glancing regularly at Anselm’s habit, wanting to share them with someone likely to understand. The charged quiet became gradually prickly and then unbearably painful. As if climbing gingerly onto a window ledge, she said, carefully: ‘Strange, really, that Nigel joined the Church and Michael went into the Army.’

She’d assumed knowledge of Jennifer’s father. She wanted to talk about him as much as her husband. This quiet man who stood at the back of every photograph.

‘Why?’ prompted Mitch.

‘Well, Nigel was the sporty one,’ said Mrs Goodwin, her hands working as if she were warming a ball of clay. ‘Played rugby for Suffolk. Climbed mountains. Jumped into rivers. He’d been in the cadets and loved the marching and the uniform and the chance to fire a real gun and scream his head off, whereas Michael was shy and retiring, hated any kind of confrontation. He was the peacemaker in the family. Always wanted to get people to sit down at a table and sort out their differences. Hated violence of any kind. Loved Evensong. You can imagine everyone’s surprise when he announced he wanted to join the Royal Anglian Regiment. We thought he saw the Army as a kind of peace-keeping force … not a
fighting
force as such, if you see what I mean. We imagined he wanted to build bridges in the Third World. But he didn’t build anything … he went to Northern Ireland instead.’

She made the statement as if it were charged with menace and meaning. She looked from Anselm to Mitch, her blue eyes inviting a reaction. None was given.

‘He was there during the Troubles,’ she explained, hopefully.

Still no response. After a moment’s further uncertainty, she seemed to make the final leap: ‘We don’t know what happened while he was over there … but when he came back he was a completely different man.’

Mrs Goodwin’s hands stopped moving. Having made this central disclosure – the significance of which was lost on Anselm – she appeared to relax, grateful to leave behind the habitual deference. She was used to milling around fêtes and fairs, listening to the entanglements in other people’s lives, but now, for once, it was her chance to talk. Few wanted to know if the vicar’s wife had had her own experience of hell.

‘He ended up with the Intelligence Corps,’ she said, and then abruptly changed tone. ‘Look, I’m telling you this because I have my own theory about Jenny’s death … but I can’t tell you in front of my husband, and you won’t understand why I think what I think unless you understand what happened to Michael after he came home from Belfast.’

Mrs Goodwin crouched forward. She knew her husband would be back soon. There wasn’t much time.

‘They were very close as brothers,’ she said, quietly. ‘Which makes what has happened all the more tragic.’

Always fighting, of course (she explained, smiling). As boys they pulled each other’s hair out. But as they got older – Nigel was the elder by two years – their individual characters began to emerge (the quiet and withdrawn as against the loud and extrovert) and the sheer difference between their outlook and behaviour brought them together rather than pushed them apart. It was a principle of complementarity. The one needed the other. Michael would quieten Nigel down while Nigel would draw Michael out of his shell. A mutual friend once said that when Michael joined the Army he was following a path opened up by his brother. And vice versa. When Nigel began studies in theology, the way forward had already been illuminated by his quiet, reflective sibling. They chose their careers out of personal conviction, certainly, but in a strange way they were indebted to each other. They’d bound one another into their radically different futures … Michael was
involved
in Nigel’s life of spiritual reflection and Nigel was
involved
in Michael’s life of military action. No surprise, then, that Michael asked Nigel to be Jenny’s godfather.

‘At the time Nigel was studying at Oxford,’ said Mrs Goodwin. ‘Michael had only recently left Sandhurst and got married. He was a lieutenant with a young wife still training to be a vet in Edinburgh.’

‘Emma?’ supplied Anselm, securing a bond between them; showing that he was familiar with some of the family history.

‘Exactly. She just plugged away at the books while Michael went to postings in Cyprus and Germany. After he was promoted to captain, Emma got a job in Sudbury, and he transferred to the Intelligence Corps. That’s when he specifically asked if he could go to Belfast.’

‘Why?’

Anselm was beginning to worry slightly. How this account of brothers in arms meshed with the death of Jennifer Henderson was beyond his imagination.

‘He wanted to make a difference. He said there was a deep sickness in the society that needed healing. Ancient wounds in Irish history that were still wide open. He wanted to help close them.’

‘Always the peacemaker,’ ventured Anselm.

‘Nigel’s own words, when Michael told him. Michael said something had to be done to bring about
lasting
change, regardless of the risks. We’re now convinced it’s why he’d joined up in the first place … it had nothing to do with building bridges in Africa.’

‘Why are you so sure?’ appealed Anselm.